


With Empathy

by orphan_account



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Forced Eye Contact, M/M, Violence, Will killin' folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-18
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-15 08:54:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/847633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It is 5:26 PM, I am in Baltimore, Maryland, and my name is Hannibal Lecter."</p>
<p>It doesn’t fit, not quite. But Will has to try.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Empathy

_It is 5:26 PM, I am in Baltimore, Maryland, and my name is Hannibal Lecter._

It doesn’t fit, not quite. But Will has to try. He has his suspicions about Hannibal—terrible, terrible suspicions—and this is the only way to make sure. Will only plans to be here for a short time, a half an hour at most; it’ll be just a taste, and if he tastes blood, that’ll be his answer. It has never been this hard to get into another’s mind before.

_I am a polite, educated, cultured,_ (brilliant) _man. I am intimately familiar with both the human mind and body. I am a clinical psychologist who now often assists the FBI via my…_ No words come. _… via Will Graham._

It would be much easier if Will had access to Hannibal’s home or office. As it is, he has decided on a library. It’s quiet enough, and the bookshelves are reminiscent of Hannibal’s collection. He places himself in the psychology section and pretends to peruse their selection. Every little bit will help; Will has even dressed nicely, or at least as nicely as he had available.

There’s a book analyzing some case studies of serial killers. Will doesn’t read it too intently, But skimming through the section headings gives him something to think about—gives _Hannibal_ something to think about.

_I understand murderers, but some I find… distasteful. When I kill, I am much more artful and discrete. This is my design._

There’s still some part of him that remains Will and is horrified. But it’s far too late now to call the exercise off, and to be honest, the words his mind supplies him are not as surprising as they should be. Maybe there was some part of him that always knew, but only now was everything fitting together. Hannibal’s mind begins to open up, and Will sinks into it much deeper than he had ever been able to even when sitting directly across from him. It envelopes him with warmth and darkness.

_I take pride in my art, and my portfolio is decades long. The Chesapeake Ripper was just one series, and being close to the FBI has been such a great opportunity. It’s fascinating to see their inner workings, and…_

He is pulled out of his reverie by a raised voice. On the other side of the bookshelf, a woman shouts at a young librarian. Will peers through the gaps between books. The woman is angry about some book or another the library doesn’t have. The librarian cowers and attempts to explain that they could try contacting other branches, placing an order, it’s a library, please keep your voice down. The woman turns and makes for the exit, flinging additional insults over her shoulder.

_How incredibly rude._

_This is how I find my victims. She is so egregious, I immediately follow her home. Traffic is bad and the rain makes visibility worse; I nearly lose her a number of times, but her house isn’t too far. I park two blocks away and move in to survey the surroundings. It’s a nice neighborhood, where every house is surrounded by large yards that will conceal from curious neighbors. Stains on the driveway suggest there are usually two cars: a roommate or spouse. I am neither disappointed nor relieved; it is simply good to know what I am going into._

_The front door is locked, but it is not hard at all to hop the fence into the back yard. The back door opens with a light jingle of wind chimes on the inner handle. There is movement in the adjacent room, and I know I have to move fast. I grab a nearby vase_ (and Will dimly realizes that he is wearing gloves. Was that on purpose?) _, and as soon as the woman’s face appears in a doorway, I jump at her and break it over her head. She collapses with a scream, but remains conscious. I take one of the shards of glass and shove it into her throat. The room erupts in the smell of blood and the sight of red._

_I smile. But I can’t sit back and relax quite yet; I have no way of knowing when I may be interrupted. I am usually much more cautious. I use another shard to cut open her chest. This one won’t be art; it might more be classified as a sketch or doodle. I dig in to find her heart._

(Hannibal is an expert at this, but empathy and imagination can only go so far. Blood is everywhere, making everything slippery and hard to make out. Will manages to puncture the heart before finding it, and the way he hacks at the arteries is nothing like surgery. The end result is, at least, the same; he pulls out a meaty heart, still warm. Will stares at it with fascination.)

_This sketch will be made of glass. I collect the scattered pieces of vase and press the larger ones into the body, one by one. The smaller are deposited into the open chest cavity. It doesn’t look like quite enough, but fortunately, there is a similar vase nearby to smash into the ground and collect materials from._

_This is not my best, not by a long shot but it’ll do. Cleanup consists of first finding a Ziploc bag in the kitchen in order to store the heart. Then, the clothes, which is much more complicated. There’s blood on nearly everything. The gloves must go, obviously. The sleeves of his jacket are soaked as well. Blood spots everything else, but it’s less perceptible; those I can dispose of later. This house has a well-used fireplace, and the gloves and jacket go up in flames. It’s slightly awkward, but the heart goes under my shirt until I make it to the car._

_Home, fortunately, isn’t far._

 

* * *

 

Things get fuzzy from there. He remembers driving up to Hannibal’s house and approaching the door, the still-warm heart tucked once again under his shirt. When Hannibal opens the door, Will collapses.

 

* * *

 

Will wakes up on a bed, squinting into bright sunlight. He has no idea where he is at first, and he jolts up in panic as his mind supplies all kinds of terrible possibilities— _I’ve been kidnapped, taken by a killer. Where are my dogs—what’s happened to my dogs!?_

Hannibal appears in a doorway and the panic flows out of him. He’s not wearing the suits and vests that Will so often sees on him, but he still manages to look so poised and elegant. He carries a plate into the bedroom. “You’re still sleepwalking, Will.”

_No._ As the last traces of panic and drowsiness leave Will’s mind, what’s left is terrible, terrible understanding. He sits up, even the small effort making him light-headed, and takes the plate silently. He stares down at the food so that he doesn’t have to so much as glance at Hannibal. He’s not sure how much of last night was a dream, but the conclusions are the same regardless: _Hannibal is dangerous._

“Quiche, with fresh broccoli, morel mushrooms, and ham,” Hannibal explains. “Please be careful. I wouldn’t typically let you eat in the guest bedroom, but you look much too pale to move. Would you like coffee?”

The food smells deceptively good, and Will’s stomach is telling him he didn’t have dinner last night. But no—the thought of it makes him nearly gag. He has leave as soon as possible and let Jack know. _Just… oh God, Hannibal. Oh God._

“Will?”

Will glances up, and it’s just enough to make eye contact. Hannibal’s expression is as stoic as usual, with only the slightest furrowing of the eyebrows denoting worry. Will feels something much deeper in his eyes, though. Concern and thoughtfulness and something _predatory_ and hungry and pleased and— _too much, too much_. Will tears his gaze away.

“Coffee, Will?”

Will takes a deep, shuttering breath, then replies, “No thanks.” He stares down at the quiche again and tries to think up excuses.

Hannibal just stands there, hands behind his back. “May I ask you what you dreamed about?”

Will bites back the urge to laugh. _I dreamed you were my friend, not a killer._ There’s something worrisome, though: How much of it _had_ been a dream? How much time had he lost? It’s only then that he realizes that the shirt he’s wearing isn’t his own.

“You were soaking wet,” says Hannibal. “I apologize for the intrusion, but you have no reason to tax your already overworked immune system.”

Intrusion indeed. Will tries not to think about it, but he suddenly feels quite warm. Of course, the only other place his mind can go is to the Chesapeake Ripper, to Hannibal the killer, and before he knows it, he’s crying. He holds a hand up to his eyes to try to protect against reality, and when Hannibal takes the plate from his lap, Will folds into himself.

There’s a clink as Hannibal sets the plate down. “What do you last remember, Will?”

Behind his eyelids, Will sees red and a human heart, and he sobs. He can see himself at Hannibal’s door, disoriented and wet and speckled with blood. Hannibal’s gaze burns on the back of his neck, and Will feels pulled apart and pinned like a bug in a scientist’s lab. That could be literal, before long. But he’s not so much afraid as just _hurt_.

“You know—” he chokes out. “You know what I did.” And against his better judgment, he continues, voice increasingly hysterical, “And I know that you—!”

Will’s imagination provides all the ways that Hannibal could now kill him, and what he would do with the body. Strangulation, slicing him open alive, impaling him with one of his many high-quality knives, Will pulled apart, on display in front of the FBI. It already feels like Hannibal has done all that and worse, the betrayal hurts so much. His death might be more of an afterthought.

He sobs until his eyes run out of tears and his throat is raw before it occurs to him that Hannibal hasn’t done anything. He glances up for a moment, and the emotions hit him like a train— _fascinationamusementgleeself-assuredness_ —and Will whimpers and holds his arms over his head like a shield. Anybody’s emotions would be unbearable right now, and Hannibal’s are just so unusually _loud_ , now that Will has already inhabited his mind once. He curls up more; if he can make himself small enough, maybe he can disappear and none of this will have happened.

“I do hope you did a good job with the crime scene,” Hannibal finally says. “I would have asked to see it myself, but I couldn’t wake you last night. Might I say, though, that you did a fantastic job with the heart for someone with no experience.”

Will is glad he hasn’t eaten much, because he feels like throwing up.

“How did it make you feel?”

All the energy Will has put into curling up suddenly turns around, lashes out like a rubber band. He jumps to his feet and bares his teeth at Hannibal. “Don’t _fucking_ patronize me!” The thud of his fist against Hannibal’s jaw is so, so satisfying.

Hannibal stumbles back a step or two— _intriguesurprisehopeawe—_ and massages where Will hit. “I assure you, I do not mean to. In fact—” Will swings with his other fist and makes contact higher, near the temple. Hannibal winces, and quickly retaliates, pouncing forward. Will cries out as his shoulder takes the force of two men falling into the bed. One hand finds its place around Will’s throat, legs pinning him down. Will breathes in hard— _this is it, this is it. At least I can stop feeling, now._

But although Hannibal’s hand is applying pressure, it’s not nearly enough to choke. Furthermore, Hannibal’s other hand cups around Will’s chin firm, making him face straight forward.

“I said, I do _not_ mean to patronize you. How did it feel, being me?”

Will opens his eyes, and finds Hannibal only a few inches away. Both the proximity and the intensity stun Will: _curiositywonderirritation_ affection _eagerness_. Will finds his own identity slip under the onslaught, and he _sees_. This has been the plan all along: to twist and bend Will until he can step right into Hannibal’s mind and kill like he does. And he can see _why_ so intimately: Will and his amazing, unique ability; Will, Hannibal’s work of art.

“Like being consumed,” Will says breathlessly. “Your mind it’s—it’s different than others. There’s so _much_ , and it’s all so _full_ and _deep_.” Hannibal must know what this eye contact is doing to him; Will’s attempts to pull away and look to the side are futile, and there’s something so overwhelming about it that prevents Will from keeping his eyes shut. Will squirms, and he pushes at Hannibal’s shoulders but he’s too weak, and Hannibal too strong.

“Is that all?” _Hungerprideadmiration_.

“And—and good.” He arches his back in another failed attempt. “Seeing the world, killing like you—it felt _good_. Your mind is _brilliant_.” A wave of _delighttriumph_ lovemakes Will wonder for a moment or two who he’s talking about, who he himself is.  The world turns, and Will can swear he’s the one on top, grinning down at his work of art, the marvelous murderer he has carefully trained and combed for months now. He wants to place a knife in his hand and guide it into a pig’s heart, to show him how to _really_ kill and tear apart a body like an expert. He can feel their hands wrapped together and the way the knife slides effortlessly into the woman’s chest.

He comes to upon realizing that Hannibal has let go of his chin. Will tilts his head back and gasps as if resurfacing, thankful to be seeing the blankness off the guest bedroom’s ceiling. His mind is still reeling, however, at the both the reality of his kill and, now, at the emotions radiating from Hannibal. Even looking away, they’re still _there_.

Despite himself, Will laughs. It’s all he can think to do in the face of his world crumbling apart so fantastically like this. “You love me,” he states matter-of-factly.

Hannibal’s silence lasts a beat too long. _Surprise._ “Yes.”

Will’s mind feels rubbed raw, and he _knows_ that he hasn’t pulled all of Hannibal out of him. He simply doesn’t have enough energy. But that simple fact, _Hannibal loves me_ , is strangely comforting—it’s stable and real. And it means that he won’t be dying, at least not immediately. It does, however, make him incredibly sensitive about the hand on his throat. “Alright,” he says, as if it’s remotely possible to take these things one at a time, set his life straight again.

Hannibal’s hand moves up and his thumb rubs lightly at Will’s jaw; the contact is disconcertingly pleasant, stabilizing.

“And I—I killed someone.” He fidgets, then smiles a smile somewhere between forced and real. “And I _did_ do a good job with the crime scene. It—it was so _easy_.”

Will feels the kiss coming before Hannibal so much as twitches forward. He still makes a small noise, and Hannibal fucking _purrs_ behind his teeth. The solid reality of it is dizzying, and Will knows for a fact that Hannibal could still be his anchor, his gauge—a broken, distorted one, but a gauge nonetheless. And maybe that would be okay. Will opens his mouth to let Hannibal inside.

**Author's Note:**

> First fanfic in a *long* time. It probably shows.
> 
> Oh, look what you're doing to me, Hannibal.


End file.
